


==>Terezi: Be the Mom

by Quilly



Series: Married with Grubs [5]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, Gen, Phase One, but that is also an upside, in which terezi finds out the downside to having a miniature army of miniature people, incredibly self-indulgent babyfic, is that they are quite miniature, of the Married with Grubs event, part of the Sherlockbound/Fun with Dirk and Jane universe, there is no ironic angel coming to save you mrs. district attorney
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2014-01-06
Packaged: 2018-01-07 19:25:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1123490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quilly/pseuds/Quilly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is Terezi Pyrope and if your children don't settle down you are going to get UPSET.</p>
<p>(Part of the Married with Grubs event for the Sherlockbound/Life with Dirk and Jane series. Phase One: Babies, 5/6)</p>
            </blockquote>





	==>Terezi: Be the Mom

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, all! This is an event going on at the Sherlockbound askblog (asksherlockbound.tumblr.com, check the sidebar for the Married with Grubs button) and I'm moving the drabbles over to here for other people to access, so voila! This is the fifth of six in Phase One: Babies of that event! If you're curious about what Sherlockbound/Life with Dirk and Jane is, check my page for the series Life with Dirk and Jane!
> 
> Enjoy!

Your name is Terezi Pyrope and you are embarrassed to admit that for years you have been taking your matesprit-husband-partner-in-crime-for-life for granted.

 

The evidence is in the three crying children, one poopy diaper, and the box of Cheerios scattered all over the floor. Dave, who complains that the children only behave for you but can still make them fall in line with a word, is currently halfway around the world shooting a movie for a bigger company than his little indie studio, which tanked sometime around kid number three (the DVD sales are still superb, which makes you think Dave shut the studio down intentionally). You, on the other hand, are wrist-deep in baby wipes and your own frustrated tears and about _this_ close to losing it.

There is no ironic angel coming to save you, Mrs. District Attorney, so you suck it up and deal with one problem at a time. First, the diaper, which belongs to your youngest child, Dallas. She’s still in the larval stage, so the diaper change is a little more difficult, but once you wrestle her in and out of the little grub diapers and sniff her legs for undue bruising or tearing you call that a win and set her loose on the couch, where she’s gnawing on a cushion. Next, the three crying children, who are still fighting like meowbeasts in an alley apparently over a single toy. Dakota, Dean, and Dayvee are the culprits here, and it appears Dayvee has bitten Dean and drawn blood.

Your initial instinct is to take the toy, break it over your knee, and send all three boys to separate corners, but you master that impulse, merely snatch the toy, and then send the boys to their corners. The crying does not stop, but once you fish Dallas out from behind the couch and make sure Django hasn’t choked on anything, you can handle it. Now for the broom and the vacuum to clean up the Cheerios.

You do it as fast as you can (it is surprisingly difficult going by smell alone), but by the time you finish Dean has scampered off somewhere and his brothers are still screaming at the tops of their voices. You take a deep breath, and unleash a hissing growl that would probably make Karkat proud. All sound stops immediately. You thank your troll genetics for the raspy quality.

“Everyone is going to be _quiet_ ,” you say menacingly, “because if you don’t, I will call Daddy and he will lay down the _law_ here.” This feels odd, because you know Dave says this to them about three times a day, but it’s all you know to say. The unimpressed look your eldest son gives you, even though he hasn’t done anything wrong today, irritates you.

“Django,” you say, “pick out a movie.”

He slides to the floor, his cloud of white-blond hair fanning out around him and reminding you very strongly of his father, and trots to the kid-safe DVD basket while you scoop Dallas up again from falling behind the couch, set her on your back (she clings to your shirt and you are okay with that), and go about putting your other sons to rights. Dakota, your second-chosen son, obediently follows your admonition to sit in a corner of the couch. Dayvee, third-chosen, sits in the opposite corner and goes to poke Dakota, only to be stopped by your hissing. You find the first aid kit and start a hunt for your fourthborn, following the trace scent of strawberry-red blood.

You find Dean in a closet, holding his bitten arm, and you dig him out quite easily and swing him up. He is still extremely small and barely able to walk, so though he wriggles and protests as you bandage up his bite, you are able to hold onto him. You stick him and Dallas back in the playpen set up in a corner of the entertainment block and then flop down on the couch between Dakota and Dayvee, blowing a breath out of your mouth as the movie ( _no not the one about the sentient cars again_ ) plays.

They are quiet for about an hour, during which you definitely doze off, but Dean’s shrieking jolts you up and you realize the room is empty except for Dean and Dallas, who is crawling on his head and apparently the source of dismay. You pry Dallas off, soothe Dean with a stuffed dragon lying inside the pen, and follow the giggling into Django’s respite block. Django, Dakota, and Dayvee are having a ball playing with a box, some scalemates, and paper towel rolls. You watch them (in the way you watch anything, with flared nostrils and mouth slightly open), your blood-pusher throbbing, and wonder how much of this you miss by being at the office all day. They’re usually tired and cranky when you get home.

“Mommy!” Django calls, grabbing your hand and pulling you in. “Be the dragon! Be the dragon!”

You remember this game well, though it’s been sweeps since you played. You pause gameplay to pull the pen into the block, then get on all fours and snarl and breathe fire and become the most fearsome dragon in the entire world. You are eventually defeated, as is natural in Django’s world, by the brave knight Django and his trusty steed Dakota, and the fair prince Dayvee is rescued. Until the dragon comes back to life, grabs all three boys, and collapses giggling and tickling onto Django’s bed.

You should make a habit of sending Dave out of town more often.

He comes home the following night, surprisingly enough. The house is a wreck. Dallas’ room is a tangle of grub silk, as she’ll be pupating any day now. Your boys are all asleep in a pile on the couch as _Cars_ plays for the eighth time that day. You are in a stupor on the couch, a pillow pressed over your face and an empty bottle of decaf Dr. Pepper by your dangling hand. You are awakened from your daze by the pillow being removed and a pair of lips snogging yours for an inappropriate amount of time before you can make sure it’s actually Dave you’re licking.

“Hey, TZ,” he says, and you burst into horrible teal tears.

“Your children,” you sob, “are _awful little monsters_.”

“I keep trying to tell you,” Dave says, and he’s grinning very widely at you.

“I love them so very much, Dave,” you say, almost in a daze as he helps you sit up. “I would kill dragons, burglars, and harmless old ladies for these kids. How do you stand it?”

“I do yoga,” he says, and kisses you again. “Help me get ‘em into bed.”

As it is very late and they did not take their naps today, all four little boys go down to bed with very little fuss. You open Dallas’ door just to make sure she is still there, and would you sniff at that, there is a hard shell of grub silk and saliva suspended from a corner in the room. You lean your head on Dave’s shoulder as he comes up behind you and puts his arm around you.

“Dave,” you say, “I am excessively tired.”

“Welcome to my world, babe.”

“I do not think we need to have any more children.”

“Nope.”

“However, I am amenable to whatever plan you have in store for me at this very moment.”

Dave grins then, his shades sliding down his nose.

You both sleep like rocks until you are jumped on by a quartet of noisy jungle animals at an abominable hour. They are chased around the house by a dragon and a monster until Dean trips onto his face, and then the monster makes pancakes. It is rated a good morning by all.


End file.
